


A Devoted Teacher

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 11:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Robert Hogan had decided it was rather like being a devoted teacher.  You could be very good at it, the teaching, but it meant nothing without having a pupil to teach, the RIGHT pupil.A story told from three points of view - the teacher, his pupil, and an outside observer.





	A Devoted Teacher

**Author's Note:**

> GraceUnderFire had requested the beginning of the Hogan/Newkirk relationship, and perhaps it IS time for that to be told. Of course, we learned bits and pieces in various stories, some straight out, some only alluded to. Now, from the viewpoint of Hogan, Newkirk, and LeBeau, let's take a look at the very beginning, how it started, how it changed. 
> 
> For the backstory of Hogan and Charlie, see 'I Think I Know Just The Man'.

POV Peter Newkirk

He'd always had a liking for the lads as well as for the lasses, though he'd found himself in a position not overly conducive to enjoying either. Oh, in a camp full of men you'd have thought the former, at least, wouldn't have been hard to come by, but you'd have been wrong, at least if you were talking about Peter Newkirk. 

To understand, you need to take a second look at that first sentence. "He had a liking for the lads as well as for the lasses." To him, that meant when he was in the mood for some companionship that would lead to a bed, building warmth, and some highly pleasurable physical exercise, MUTUALLY pleasurable, he had a history of being equally as likely to seek out a similarly inclined woman OR a man, depending on attraction and availability.

He was NOT a predator, seeking out those he could use, bend to his will or his fist. He was not a victim, either, letting himself be used. He'd seen both of those, from an early age, determined neither held any appeal, though understanding those in the latter position might not be there by choice but by circumstances. The East End held a lot of 'circumstances'. (Turned out the East End wasn't the only place.)

But Alfie Burke and his sweet wife Maisie had sat the young man down very early, before his teens even, and their advice had left Peter with a code of conduct about such things that was surprisingly ethical and sensible.

"Couldn't belong to someone else, nothing underage, no one working with a ponce, no one connected to the coppers and such, no one connected to the gangs or the bullie boys, no innocent Mary's, no one not knowing the score, so to speak, no leaving any with the chance of their apron riding 'igh."

And while the last bit of advice wouldn't apply to any here at Stalag 13, except Klink's secretary (like THAT was going to happen!), the rest pretty much did, and he just didn't see anyone who appealed to him who wasn't ruled out by one or the other of those rules he was sworn to abide by.

So now, stuck in Stalag 13, he'd pretty much given up on the notion of sex, other than a little self-help when he could find a place of privacy. For awhile he'd thought he and LeBeau might get together, being such good friends, but that hadn't happened, for one reason or another. Well, other than a little sharing of the same room with each giving themselves a little self-help, but that was hardly the same thing. That was just friends sharing some good times, like when they swoped stories or played netball or sang in the gleeclub together; just friend stuff. 

And he missed, really missed the other kind of sharing. Missed ALL of it, not just the basic sex. Missed the game of flirting, the private little looks and signals you'd share with someone. Missed kissing; he'd always enjoyed that. Missed the feeling of skin on skin, something beyond having someone tend your injuries which was a feeling he was getting a little tired of. Oh, not the actual tending, just the necessity for that tending, if you know what I mean. And, although he would probably never admit this to anyone else, probably not even to himself, he missed pleasing someone else, learning how best to do that. And he really missed having someone who wanted to please him, wanted to learn just how to do that. Yes, he missed the whole thing.

Then the new officer showed up, Colonel Robert Hogan, with his handsome face, his cocky, confident attitude, his laughing eyes, his wild plans, and things changed.

He hadn't known whether to trust the man, in the beginning; officers were a chancy bunch at best, in his experience. But watching the scams, being a part of their newfound mission, being able to play a part, not just sit and watch the world exploding around them without being able to do anything to stop it - ah, that was addictive!

And just as addictive? The warm approving looks Peter was getting from Hogan. The warm hand on his arm, occasionally an encouraging arm around his shoulders, at his waist. That was addictive as well. Addictive enough that the first hint of something more brought a smile to Peter's face, an internal tensing of anticipation, building to a solid need he tried to hide from his superior officer and the other men.

Til the night they were headed home from a job, just the two of them, Hogan in that German officer's uniform, Newkirk in that rather embarrassing dress, caught in a role he'd actually had to shave his sideburns to fulfill, and things changed. First it was just a gentle thumb at the side of his mouth, "you got your lipstick smeared; let me fix it," but those dark eyes smiling in a way that made Peter shiver. Peter could feel Hogan's eyes on him. The officer was driving, but dividing his attention between the road and the Brit in the passenger seat. Peter knew his cheeks were flushed; he bloody well knew he was getting hard, just feeling those eyes on him. 

It was rather embarrassing; he wasn't some raw boy on his first outing; hadn't been that since he was fourteen and had somehow caught Mrs. Devlin's eye, caught and kept it for the six months she'd lived the next block over from Maudie's pub. A whole education he'd gotten in those six months, to add to what he was learning elsewhere. And the intervening years, he hadn't been idle there either, and not like he'd been an innocent in any other way either. Those had been busy years, in all kinds of ways, in the rough and tumble life in London's East End, between when he was youngster and now. Lord, he'd been mid-twenties when he'd mentored Caeide, and that had been some time before the bloody war had started. Yet, to feel his pulse race, you'd have thought he was fourteen years old again, and Molly Devlin just starting his equivalent of a university education in the more personal arts.

When Hogan steered the car onto a lonely side road and pulled off into the shadow of the trees, Peter didn't know if the thundering in his head was from concern or anticipation. When Hogan had turned and cupped his head in one hand, pulled him in for a gentle kiss, he decided it was anticipation, and he found himself smiling into those lips. The smile stayed there even when the officer eased himself around and Peter found himself with Hogan straddling his thighs, sinking down, holding him tight against the seat. "There, that's better," Hogan chuckled. "Much more comfortable."

Long slow kisses, then the skirt of the dress pulled up, those tightly confining underclothes pulled aside, and warm strong hands stroked him as he hadn't known for a long time now. He'd thought to undo Hogan's trousers, return the favor, but a firm, "no. Put your hands behind your back, at the small of your waist. I'll take care of everything else." 

Hogan had just laughed and kissed away Peter's faint protests, and finally Peter had complied, only to have Hogan lean in in such a way that his hands were truly caught, and Peter felt truly trapped. Still, the words, the voice were soft, gentle, encouraging, and the trapped feeling subsided as other feelings re-emerged, eventually overpowering even his ability to think. 

Afterwards, as Hogan settled back in front of the wheel, he reached back and twitched an errant fold in Peter's dress back into place. "Neatness counts, Peter. Remember that," giving a low laugh. 

Even caught in the afterglow, Peter thought there had been an oddly triumphant note in Hogan's voice. Well, fair enough, he was feeling fairly triumphant himself; he hadn't had a time like that since before he was shot down.

From then on, when circumstances permitted, the interaction grew. Some stolen minutes in Peter's tailor shop, a couple of times when Hogan 'visited' Peter while he was doing cooler time again. Peter was knowledgeable and enthusiastic; Hogan's knowledge matched Peter's, and it was good between them.

And then, and far too quickly, things started to shift, and sometimes Peter found he wasn't quite comfortable with the direction that Hogan was pushing him. Soon, it wasn't always good, but he didn't pull away, telling himself it was more often good than not. Telling himself it was the stress that made Hogan get too rough sometimes. Telling himself he HAD mucked up some part of a job, or talked back too much in the barracks, or some other way he'd fallen short; that was why Hogan had been a little annoyed and forgot what pleased Peter and what didn't.

Still, he didn't pull away, didn't try to pull back, not until he found himself dreading those encounters more than longing for them. When he couldn't be certain whether a kiss would end with a gentle tongue lapping at his, or sharp teeth piercing, tearing his lip. Not til he found a gentle hand could grip just a hair too tight, then punishingly so. Not until he realized those fingernails could pierce rather than just rake erotically across his skin. Not til he found his warm easy lover could leave him huddled on the ground, bleeding, holding back a moan not of completion but of pain. 

He was more than a little bewildered at how he'd gotten where he was; he'd never been submissive, never allowed himself to be taken advantage of, abused, never willingly anyway. Had stepped around traps others had laid before, punished those who'd made the try. Why was he letting Hogan do this? While he never could reason that out, other than it being the circumstances they'd found themselves in, he decided it was going to stop. If he'd been back home, it would have been easy enough. Tell the wanker to shove off, and if he didn't want to listen, well, that was easy enough to handle too, with some of his old mates being willing enough to give him a hand if need be. Here, well, here it was different, especially with Hogan being the senior prisoner of war, in charge of their little Travelers Aid Society and all. It might be, certainly WOULD be awkward, but he figured Hogan would get over it; after all, he was a valuable member of the unit; surely Hogan wouldn't want to alienate him to the point of jeopardizing the mission.

And so he tried to pull away, only to find it was too late. Hogan knew him far too well by then, knew his weakness. Knew there were two people Peter would die for, would do just about anything else for as well - Louie LeBeau and Colin Olsen. (Of course, the same could be said for his sister Mavis, and Maudie and Marisol and Caiede, but they weren't here and available.) By the time, Andrew Carter joined the team, the die was already cast, though having Andrew as an additional goad only helped Hogan's position.

James Kinchloe added to the chains, and Peter found himself spiraling down, down, knowing he'd never be free, not as long as those four men were within Hogan's power to harm, to destroy. He couldn't even take the easy way out, enrage one of the guards, take a misstep on a mission outside the wire, because without him, Hogan would only start with one of the others. The Colonel had made that quite clear, seemed to find it amusing that he had such fine choices, 'just in case you ever decide to jilt me, Peter, or do something equally foolish" with almost a coy tone in his voice.

One thing Peter Newkirk knew - he had to continue to protect his friends. Well, two things actually. That first, and also that he damned SURE had to keep Hogan from ever realizing just how much Andrew Carter, the silly young clutch, meant to him. Because if that ever happened, if Hogan ever tried to hurt Andrew, Peter was going to have to stop him. Probably end up killing the man, knew he would never be able to stop himself, and that would probably end up with everyone getting killed.. {"Just your luck, Newkirk, you stupid sod. Everyone else around 'ere is in prison, but only YOU managed to get yourself locked into two of em at the same bloody time!"}

 

POV Colonel Robert Hogan

Robert Hogan had decided it was rather like being a devoted teacher. You could be very good at it, the teaching, but it meant nothing without having a pupil to teach. And it had been some time since Charlie, and he missed having a pupil. 

Oh, not so much at first; selecting the men for his team, getting them on board, setting up things here in the camp, in the surrounding area, that had taken all his attention for quite some time. But once that was better in hand, yes, the memories of what it was to take raw clay and mold it into something else, something more to his liking, that was something he craved. 

There was a special formula he used in what he thought of as his teaching; it had worked fairly well for him in the past, though it obviously needed improvement. Well, not his technique; he was confident THAT was fine. It was more about making better choices in deciding on a pupil. It shouldn't be, COULDN'T be a weakling. There was little challenge there, and the end result was less than satisfactory. He'd been content with that in his youth, but one quickly grew past that, once he HIMSELF grew stronger. 

No, he wanted someone strong enough to withstand the training, start to finish. Yet, it had to be someone with enough weakness to first be drawn along the path and then into the trap, and enough weaknesses to control him after he realized he was IN a trap, to keep him from breaking away and winning free. A delicate balance, certainly, and so not just anyone would do. 

Now Charlie, he'd been quite promising, seemed ideal in fact. Handsome, well-spoken, with an easy laugh and smile. Young officer, college graduate so he was smart; college athlete, so he was strong and agile. Raised in a good upper class, military home, so he should know the importance of following orders, know how important discipline was. And at first, it had seemed to be proving a success. 

Til Charlie had gotten needy. The damned fool had actually fallen in love with Hogan! Hell, that was the last thing Hogan wanted! Love, or at least the suggestion of love, might work for the trap, but after that it just spoiled everything. The pupil had to FEEL the cage, FEEL the whip, feel the emotions turn from attraction and desire to fear, and love tended to disguise all that. Hogan had that happen more than once, especially with women, which is why he preferred to play this little game with men. 

Anyway, Charlie had ended up an abject failure, in one way, though a rather satisfying success in another. The fact that Charlie had started cutting himself, punishing himself for his repeated failures to live up to what Hogan demanded of him, that was a sign of weakness, and Hogan was rather contemptuous of that. {"So much easier to do THAT than to actually do what I required of him! Weak!"}

Charlie's trying to hang himself when Hogan discarded him, well, Hogan had had to go out and find a woman to work off the feverish excitement that news had left him with. Of course, it was a tidy way to clean up the mess of a discarded pupil, though not quite tidy enough since Charlie had managed to botch even that. Well, Charlie wasn't Hogan's problem anymore.

Now, he had to find a NEW pupil, one stronger than Charlie; this was probably going to be a pretty long stay here at Stalag 13, and he wanted SOMETHING productive to do with his time and energy, other than the job he'd been given by the High Command.

One by one he looked over the possibilities, eliminating them one by one for a variety of reasons. He'd bypassed Corporal Newkirk several times already - too common in all ways, little in the way of education, older than what he would have preferred, too rough around the edges. But somehow he kept coming back to him, gradually coming to see what he'd originally thought of as drawbacks could actually be advantages. 

The man was certainly attractive enough, those blue-green eyes and dark hair, his strong shoulders matched with his slender build, though the rations here had kept him at less than what he certainly SHOULD weigh. Even with being here since the camp was built, he'd never lost his fire, his rebellious streak, his surly 'in your face' attitude toward authority. 

There was a fire of a different sort, as well, Hogan could feel that, and he had a feeling Newkirk wasn't innocent of a man's touch any more than he was of a woman's. That was both good and bad; there was hardly the privacy here for initiating a newcomer, yet an opportunity he'd regret not having.

A few missions and he knew he'd chosen well. Newkirk had just what he was looking for, the strengths, and yes, the weaknesses too. For Hogan could see, no matter how the sardonic Englishman tried to hide it, just how much the man worried about and cared for his friends, wanted to keep them safe. Now, THAT was a very valuable whip, a powerful way to control the man later, once he had him in the right position. 

But first, the trap. And that was easy, for Hogan was a master at the art of seduction. A little encouragement, some appreciation for a job well done. Then, a warmer smile, an appreciative look, followed by the first of the touches. First a casual touch to the forearm, then an arm laid easily across those shoulders, a hand at his waist, softly, softly, slowly but not too slowly, tantalizing a man who, although possessed of a sensuous spirit, had been too long untouched by sensuality.

That first bold move, the night they'd come back from a job, oh, that had been sweet. He'd held Newkirk under him in that car seat, his words keeping him in place almost as much as his weight had. He'd felt the Englishman's heart racing, had watched him throw back his head at Hogan's touch. It had been satisfying, in all kinds of ways, though he'd regretted there not being enough room to move things along a few chapters right then and there, instead of him just coming between Newkirk's thighs. Still, it was probably better to keep to an easier pace, and besides, it was just sweeter that way, ticking off one accomplishment at a time, not rushing his fences.

The seduction had continued, then it wasn't a seduction anymore, his pupil now expecting the affection, thinking it was a given. Then, once they were at that point, he'd been able to settle down to the real purpose, the teaching, the training. It started with tempering that affection, once so easily, so consistently ladled out, replacing it with unexpected doses of harshness, rebukes. Then back to the affection, til the pupil was at ease once again, and then adding in a dash of pain, just when the affection, the pleasure was anticipated. Yes, he had the technique down quite well. Eventually there would come rebellion; that was only to be expected. Hogan didn't mind that, felt it was a vital part of the process. With this particular pupil, he expected the rebellion would be rather dramatic; the very thought got him excited.

It had happened just as Hogan had anticipated, Newkirk's pulling back, though more quickly than Hogan had figured. Seems the tough guy wasn't perhaps so tough, didn't like it all that rough, didn't think he had to take it, and Hogan found that all sorts of amusing. He hadn't even STARTED to get rough, not really, not yet, though that was certainly coming.

He'd been expecting rebellion, though, and had his response all lined out, nice and pretty. After all, he wasn't FORCING Newkirk into anything. Newkirk could just walk away, no problem. Of course, Hogan had made sure he knew that someone else would be taking his place, perhaps LeBeau, or Olsen. Later there had been Carter. Even Hogan discarded the idea of Kinch; he had the uneasy feeling the man just might snap his neck if he tried anything in that direction. 

Still, he really preferred to keep Newkirk, and as long as Newkirk was fool enough to put the others ahead of himself, well, it looked like he WOULD be keeping the Brit, all to himself. Well, except when he decided to share him with others, but even then it would be HOGAN holding the reins, the whip.

Of course, that annoying correspondence with that damned female with the outlandish name, that Hogan could have done without! Along with all the stories about her and that year in London, the letters from her sister to Carter, but read aloud in the barracks for everyone to hear. Her showing up in camp hadn't helped, just exacerbated the feelings, but in the long run, it wasn't like she was a threat to Hogan or his activities, not as long as she was elsewhere and he and Peter were here.

After all, Peter was his, would always be his, just as long as he wanted him to be. He wasn't sure how long that would be, but wasn't in any particular rush to discard this pupil, and when he finally did, he'd make sure his pupil didn't have anyone else to turn to, wouldn't even have the inclination to try. He had a feeling this would be sort of success story every great teacher would remember and brag about for the rest of his life, no matter how many other pupils might follow.

 

 

POV LeBeau:  
LeBeau could see it coming, and hadn't said a word. In fact, he approved, at least in the beginning, thought it might steady the both of them, Hogan and Pierre, for the tightrope they were having to walk on almost a daily basis. 

Oh, LeBeau was on that tightrope too, just not as often. Outside the fence, yes, but inside his activities consisted more of cooking for Schultz in return for information and favors and turning-of-the-head sort of thing. Then, more cooking for the Kommandant and his fancy guests. Sometimes a little eavesdropping, sometimes from very tight, cramped places which was highly unpleasant. 

But Hogan, he was 'on' almost constantly, playing the Kommandant for a fool, along with Burkhalter and occasionally Hochstetter and others. And Pierre? His magic fingers kept busy in a myriad of ways, any one of which could have gotten those fingers chopped off, right along with his head - stealing on order from Hogan, on request from LeBeau and Wilson; forging documents, letters; tickling open the Kommandant's desk, his safe, the occasional briefcase in the custody of important visitors. The tailoring work was the only safe part of the job, and truly, if the Germans had ever caught him at THAT, it would have meant the firing squad considering what he was tailoring and why.

Yes, a little extra steadying wouldn't go amiss with those two, and the growing personal interaction LeBeau could see happening on almost a daily basis. The little touches, the quick smiles, all pointed to this being a good thing.

It was with deep sadness and regret he would later confide to Kinch that his hopes had been in vain. Oh, it had worked for awhile, had seemed mutually beneficial, had seemed to be an expression of deep mutual affection. 

Until it started to become something else. 

And LeBeau had initially ached, for both of them, as he could see signs of it all shifting, going wrong, at least until he realized this was something different than what he'd thought. This was not a case where affection had failed to develop into something stronger and more lasting. This was not love grown old and cold. This was not boredom, or troubles created by the stress they were under. It was not even the most likely case, considering who Hogan was, the casual neglect or mistreatment of a lover by a man so accustomed to having whatever he wanted that he failed to value what he already had.

LeBeau had grown sick inside when he realized what this truly reminded him of, a day when he'd been a small boy and had visited the circus, fascinated by the animals. There he'd heard the bear tamer expounding while the big burly man downed tankard after tankard of beer in a chair outside the cage holding a constantly pacing bear showing obvious evidence of mistreatment. Bragging of how he'd captured the young bear by laying a trail of sweets, each day tempting him a little farther and farther toward a trap he'd laid. Til finally, the day the young bear stepped into the trap and the iron bars slammed down shut. He remembered with a shudder the man's boast, "now the bastard belongs to me. And I have trained him well, very very well. He dances when I say dance, he rolls over when I say he rolls over, he begs when I say he begs. If he wishes to eat, he performs. And if he doesn't? Well, there's the prod, and the whip, and a great much else. He does what he is told, because he knows what will happen if he does not!" 

LeBeau remembered running to his grandfather, pleading for help to release the bear the man had in the cage, but had been hushed and taken away, and in the morning the circus had gone. He'd wept, and his grandfather had tried to comfort him and didn't scold, but did tell him, "the bear now belongs to that man; he can do whatever he likes with it. It is not our concern, Louie." LeBeau had never really believed that, though he usually believed whatever his grandfather told him. But not that. 

When he was a teenager there had been a story about a death in a small circus. An animal trainer had been mauled by a bear he had worked with for many years. The bear had refused to leave the man's body, ripping at it again and again, and the police had to shoot and kill it in order to retrieve the body. The comments were all about how sad it was, for the animal to betray his master like that. LeBeau wondered if it had been that same man, that same bear, and felt only sadness for the bear.

Now, he realized Pierre was the bear in a cage, and it was HE and Olsen (later to be joined by Carter) who were being used as the prod and the whip to make Pierre dance to Hogan's commands. That without them to be used as leverage, Pierre might have, probably would have defied Hogan, even knowing the Colonel would make him pay, possibly get him transferred, possibly worse, possibly an 'accident of war' on one of their many missions. He no longer put such past the man who led them, and he knew far too well just how rebellious and defiant Pierre could be. But they WERE there, and Pierre would stand between them and danger as long as he could stand at all.

Now, there was nothing to do, for any of them, but to endure, to survive, and once this war was over, try to forget that which needed to be forgotten, and build a new life with whatever was left to them.


End file.
